The Philosopher's Stone
by Adumbledore
Summary: James Potter tells the story of his son's first year at Hogwarts. (rated T for language)


This is the story of Harry James Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, and most importantly, the son of the coolest guy to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts. Warning: This story is so fantastically amazing that if you're a mediocre person, you should probably not read it, lest you explode. Alright. Without further ado, let's start.

CHAPTER ONE: THE BOY WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They had a very odd definition of normal, seeing as Mr. Dursley was a blithering idiot who bore a strange resemblance to a walrus, and Mrs. Dursley was super nosy with a horse-like face. Also she hated her sister. Mr. Dursley was the director of a large firm called Grunnings, which made drills. That's how boring he was. He spent his days making drills. The Dursleys had a small son named Dudley, and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere. Now Dudley was only small in the figurative sense, meaning he was young. Size-wise, he took after his father's walrus-y-ness. Also, there was a finer boy (there were many finer boys, but this one was the best), but we'll get to him later.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted (though Merlin knows why they wanted what they wanted), but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that someone would discover their secret. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. It would, after all, be very embarrassing for everyone to know that you had relatives that much cooler than you. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, and also the most amazing woman to have graced Mrs. Dursley (or anyone else, including Mr. Potter), with her presence. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son too, but they had never met him. That was another good reason to keep the Potters away. They didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that. The Potters also didn't want their son mixing with Dudley, mainly because they wanted to bring up an intelligent child who actually had morals.

One day (November 1, 1981), Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up. Mr. Dursley picked out his most boring tie for work, Mrs. Dursley gossiped and Dudley was a brat. At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase and kissed Mrs. Dursley, and the great question of our age is for which of them that would be worse. He attempted to kiss his son, but he was throwing a temper tantrum as usual, a behaviour of which the Dursleys encouraged. Because they're crazy.

On the corner of the street, he noticed something peculiar-a cat reading a map. He thought he must be crazy (see?), and kept going. Then he noticed the cat (who was totally not an animagi or anything) reading the sign. Mr. Dursley shook his head. Cats can't read maps _or_ signs.

He had a particularly boring day at work that I won't go into, during which he noticed several strange things, like people in cloaks saying that the Potters and Voldemort were dead and owls, all of which he ignored like the great Muggle he is. That night a man named with a long white beard appeared out of nowhere on Privet Drive. His name was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Let me tell you a thing or two about Dumbledore. First of all, he's the most brilliant and powerful wizard of the age. Voldemort (bad guy, kills people), was only afraid of one man, and that would be Dumbledore. Secondly, he was batshit crazy. Like I'm talking full-out, hires evil gits who happen to be Death Eaters to teach young children, sends three seventeen year olds on missions to hunt down fragments of the darkest wizard ever's soul, doesn't tell my son that he _is_ the last Horcrux, crazy.

Then the cat transformed into a person (what a surprise).

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall", Dumbledore said with the ghost of a smile on his face. Minnie McGee is super strict but also everyone's Mum. (warning: do not call her Mum, Minnie, McGee, Minnie McGee, Scottie, Auntie M, Auntie Minerva, kitten, whiskers, or any other nickname to her face). She can be quite terrifying, but we love her anyways. I invited her to my wedding.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone—"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too—well—noble to use them."

"It's lucky its dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore (that look is _terrifying_ , let me tell you) and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are—are—that they're—dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…" Like I said, she's everybody's Mum.

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know… I know…" he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters' son, Harry. But—he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke—and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's—it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done… all the people he's killed… he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know." Actually I know. He survived because he was a Potter, and after I died the universe was like "oh hell no. we can't end the Potter line forever" and so they didn't.

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!" Professor McGonagall tried her best to reason with Dumbledore, because she actually _cARED_ about him honestly Dumbledore what the hell.

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future—there will be books written about Harry—every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it—wise—to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?"

They looked up at the sky, where a giant of a man (half-giant, actually) was descending on a motorcycle.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir—house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where—?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give him here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I—could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it—Lily an' James dead—an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles—"

"Yes, yes, its all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep (what an asshole), took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out. He didn't use that brilliant mind of his and ring the doorbell, oh no. He just left my infant son on the step at the mercy of kidnappers and Death Eaters.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured, though Harry would need much more than luck to get through the next ten years of HELL at the Dursleys. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. Becuase no one was watching him (thanks, DUMBledore), they couldn't correct him, even though he could suFFOCATE. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley… He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!"


End file.
